


i don't want a violent show

by johniaurens



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Dark, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mystery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips, Voicemail, i mean i guess. i guess ??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:32:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6790822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johniaurens/pseuds/johniaurens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It's coming back to me in flashes. </i>
</p><p>John's dead. And then he's on the news. </p><p>(Alice Isn't Dead lams AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this is kinda like Alice Isn't Dead meets Gone Girl meets my sick imagination 
> 
> okay we will see where this goes. i have like 1/5 a plot figured out for this so
> 
> title's from headsick by july talk. riddle @ the beginning + the quote are from Alice Isn't Dead.

_Riddle: Why did the chicken cross the road? Because the dead return. Because light reverses. Because the sky is a gap. Because it’s a shout. Because light reverses. Because the dead return. Because footsteps on the ceiling. Because footsteps in the basement. Because the sky is a shout. Because it’s a gap. Because the grass doesn’t grow, or grows too much, or grows wrong. Because the dead return. Because the dead return. That – that – is why the chicken crosses the road._

-

John. John -

It's coming back to me in flashes. 

I mean the blood is coming back to me and your eyes and your freckles. Your dog tags. I mean. John. Fuck, you know what the fuck I mean. 

I thought you were dead, I really did. _John_. Oh my god. 

I woke up in the middle of the night and you were on the TV. I mean you were on the TV earlier but I woke up in the middle of the night and I remembered, and I mean remembered, not dreamed, like, I saw you on TV last week and I just didn't let myself realize it, I think. 

I fucking saw you. You were on the news and I saw you. You're not dead, holy shit. I'm in the car. I'm still in my pajamas. And I mean I don't really know where I’m going. I just. I know you're not dead. I'm coming to get you. 

Holy shit – Fuck you! God damn, what the fuck was that?!

Sorry. Some fucking jackass just cut me off. Came out of fucking nowhere. Blue Toyota. Middle-aged dude driving like he was fucking possessed. 

But John! I found it! I found the news clip!

I know you're shaking your head at me. Let me live. I'm a good driver, stop shaking your head! I've only crashed once. 

Or twice. 

Okay. I see your point. I'm pulling over now. Hold on.

-

It was Atlanta. I knew it. Some kid got kidnapped and you saw it. It wasn't a real interview, just like, a bunch of people interviewed very briefly and you were onscreen for maybe two seconds, all you said was “blue”, I don't know what it was about, eye color, maybe? Two seconds. Two fucking seconds.

Like, it's you. There's no doubt about it. I keep pausing it just so that I can see your face. I even compared it to a photo. Your hair's a little longer now and it's in a bun or a ponytail in this clip, but it's you, it's you, and you're not dead, and you're in Atlanta.

You _were_ in Atlanta, at least. 

John, fuck – it's a thirteen hour drive. I'm coming to fucking get you. You better stay the fuck wherever you are because I'm coming.

-

Ha. You know, I know I've been calling you on and off since you -

you know. If you're listening, you know. If you're listening. I want to think you are? If I keep calling and you're not listening to these eventually your voice mail's gonna fill up and then --- 

Just. My point is. Listen to my messages, okay? Just please, do that for me. I'm gonna come get you.

I love you.

-

I can't believe I scrubbed your blood off our kitchen floor.

I mean it was your blood, right? It must have been. I mean they told me it was yours. I scrubbed it off. 

I mean Lafayette helped me and Mulligan and you know Eliza would have as well but you know how she gets with blood sometimes. But there's something so draining about looking at blood and knowing it belongs to someone you love so much you would die for them and something even worse about watching that blood circle down the drain until there's nothing left. I feel like I washed you out of my life by washing you out of our tiles. I mean it's kind of poetic too I guess but not really in a good way. 

God I was – I was listening to some podcast I think and she said, hold on, let me find it, she said “You freed me, and I didn’t ask you to. I didn’t want you to. I am more free now than I have ever been, and I am spiraling.” 

John. I don't know if I was free. I felt chained. I washed you away from the tiles of our kitchen and then I had to sit down on the floor for a few hours because I felt like my heart had went down with it. I'm still not free but I feel free-er. 

More free, fuck you, you know what the fuck I mean. I'm the writer out of the two of us. I'm the brains. You're the muscles. 

Sorry, baby, you're not _just_ muscles. You know I think you're the smartest person in the world. 

Sorry.

-

John, it's been months. Why now?

I keep thinking about this. You have stayed carefully undercover for months. If you're trying to hide from me, why did you let them film you? Was it a signal? _What_ were you trying to tell me? To come look for you? But – sweetheart, why didn't you just call me? Why didn't you just come home? 

Were you scared I would be angry? Baby. I would _never_ be angry. 

I just. I can't figure this out. Help me out?

-

Hi, it's me.

Sorry. You know who it is. 

I just. There was a lot of blood. How did you survive that? I don't mean to probe or anything but holy shit, I didn't know there was that much blood inside people. I guess I knew, objectively, but it's so different to actually _see_ it. 

God, John. I can't get the blood out of my head. This is reopening all of the wounds I thought I'd closed.

Stop making fun of me. I know I've seen enough blood to be used to it by now. It's just different. It was different with you. Your blood, I mean.

Sorry. I know you'd never make fun of me for this. I guess I'm making fun of myself.

Also – I googled how many messages you can fit in your voice mail and I have left you a lot more messages than that so I know that you're listening to these and deleting them. One mystery down. Eight thousand more to go. 

I'm just wondering why you're not answering me. 

I mean I'm not mad or anything if you're trying to protect yourself or something. I'm just really worried about you.

-

Okay so you know that find friends app? I know I used to have you added, I know I added you after what happened –

I had you added but I don't anymore so I can't track you down. I called Verizon and they can't track you down either. 

I mean I can't ask them to track you down. I mean I did but they couldn't do that. It's kind of weird because I mean they should since we're married and we're on the same plan and I’m paying these bills anyway but they got so _weird_ when I asked them to do it. 

Did you tell them not to let me track you down?

I promise not to be mad if you did. I just wish you'd tell me. I love you. I hope you know that.

-

Fuck you, if you're doing this to me on purpose.

You remember – remember. That one time. God, it's still hard to say it out loud, fuck, Jones caught a bullet in the throat and it was a matter of what, an inch that it wasn't you, and for a while they thought it _was_ you? Fuck you, John. They called me and told me you were dead and I almost fucking killed myself that night. You _know_ this. 

Eliza kept saying we were getting dangerously codependent. I guess that's what war does to you. Fuck, John. I don't want to be angry at you. I don't know if I _can_ be angry at you. 

Please just call me. You gotta tell me you're alive. If I drive all the way to Atlanta and you're still dead I don't know what I’ll do with myself.

Promise me you're alive. I love you.

-

How are you _living_? Like I mean how are you paying your bills? Where are you living? Do you have a job?

I'm just asking because you didn't take any of your stuff with you. You haven't taken any money out of our account. And you're – legally you're _dead_. 

Oh my God, John. It's hitting me all over again. We _buried_ you.

Okay, let me restate that: we buried an empty coffin. We buried some wood in the general shape of a person and called it a day. 

Let me restate that: we buried an empty coffin because we couldn't scrape the blood off the tiles and put that in the coffin and it felt symbolic and I thought I could let go of you if there was something solid that we could put in the ground and pretend it was you.

I guess it worked? No, I'm sorry. I pretended that it worked. I think it worked for Lafayette. Mulligan, too, to a certain extent. I didn't really. Believe in it. Not really. I mean there's a gravestone with your name on it and there's a coffin underneath it and I keep remembering the existence of them both but it's still not _you_. So I guess it was more of a reminder of the fact that we just didn't know what happened to you. That you could be anywhere. 

It was just. They told me you were dead so I buried you. That's just what you're supposed to do with your dead. You bury them. I buried you. Buried your things. Buried your memories. Buried my love. 

That's a lie. I didn't. God, I still love you so much. I don't think that ever changed. 

Did you go willingly? Wherever you are? Did you want to leave? 

You didn't _have to_ stage your _death_ , John, _God_. You could've _told me_ if you were unhappy. I mean _really?_ It's kind of impressing. Fantastic execution. That's something I would do. Never thought you'd do that. I mean you don't really talk about your feelings and I guess I _know_ why even if I don't really _understand_. I mean that's fair enough, I know you don't understand many of my – what do you call them, _coping mechanisms_ , but you don't usually do this kind of things either. Like, this is something I'd do. Like, yell at you and write you a letter or a really exaggerated, melodramatic poem or some shit and then I'd stage my own death and pour like a gallon of pig's blood on the porch and hide for a day and watch your reaction from the bushes or something.

But I mean that was human blood on the kitchen floor. And you've been gone for almost six months. 

I don't want to be angry at you. I just wish you'd pick up. If you don't want me to find you please tell me. I won't, I promise. Just tell me you're okay and I'll leave you alone.

-

I don't know if I can keep that promise. I might not. I might hunt you down and murder you myself.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't – I'm sorry. I shouldn't threaten you like that. I know. I'm so sorry. I just. I just miss you so much. I'm so worried.

-

I'm pulled over again because I started thinking about finding you dead. Or tortured. Or something. I think I should probably call the police on you but you know how I feel about them. You know what they're like. Do you think I should call them? I could. I think they could track your phone down, at least.

You're a soldier. I think you might be okay but baby, I really need you to tell me that you're okay.

-

Okay. I stopped for food off 95. I think this might be somewhere right outside Philadelphia? I got gas and a sandwich. The sandwich is kinda gross but I think I’ll be fine. I got water bottles and Monster as well. I think I can drive this whole thing in one go if I try.

Okay, quick – I just walked into a gas station in nothing but my undershirt and pajama pants. Like, not even sweatpants, I mean like, real pajama pants. I should probably feel kind of embarrassed but I didn't? I don't? I don't know. 

Anyways. Oh my god, did something _die_ in this sandwich? Never mind. That was just a huge clump of mayo. I mean that's only marginally better. 

_Anyways._

I have a plan – I'm on the interstate already so I can just drive this, what, eight hundred miles in one go. I don't think I can sleep. It's five in the morning right now. I got like twelve hours to go so if I just keep going I'll avoid the rush hour when I get onto the smaller roads when I get closer to Atlanta.

Fuck. I forgot to get food for the rest of the trip. Sorry. I know you get weird about me not eating. I promise I'll stop for some when I’m closer to Atlanta. 

I don't really know what I'm gonna do once I get to Atlanta. I'll look around for you, I guess. You'll have to help me, baby. I'll keep telling you where I am. You gotta meet me halfway or something. 

What the fuck – 

Sorry. I think that car's following me. That's weird. California plates, I think. I keep seeing him – he was at the gas station. Got out to get gas and then just got right back into his car, just waited until I pulled out of the parking lot. Had real weird clothes – like, you know what cigarettes smell like? They look like what cigarettes smell like. Stop. I know you're laughing. They really do, like, weird off-gray. He's dressed in all-gray clothes. Got like, maybe two pieces of hair on his head. Looks like he's about forty? The car's a blue Toyota. What the fuck? 

I don't know. This feels like I'm filing a police report. Sorry. I'm sure it's nothing, I'm on the literal interstate, it was just a Shell situated really conveniently. It's probably just a coincidence but damn, it's making my heart race. You know, the feeling of being followed, you know how I get about that. God. 

Anyway. Sorry, I think my hands are shaking a little. 

He's passing me now. He's - 

fuck, John, he's, what the fuck. John. Oh my god. 

He doesn't have a face. He doesn't have a face. He doesn't --- 

sorry. I had to. Let this out somehow. I hope you're not listening with your ear buds in. That was kinda loud. Sorry for screaming into your ear. 

_He doesn't have a face_. 

I mean he has – there's skin. And he has eyes and a mouth but he doesn't have a nose or eyebrows or – anything. There isn't any defining features. His head's like a round piece of meat with three slits and pink skin. I gotta pull over. What the fuck? What the fuck.

-

Okay. I think I stopped shaking now. It's about six. I had to pull over because my hands were shaking so hard I almost swerved off the highway. Like not even out of my lane. Off the entire highway. I was in the middle lane, fuck. That really scared me.

I think I should sleep. I don't know if I can but I think I should. God. I think I’m hallucinating from stress and sleep deprivation. God, it looked – it looked so _real_. Fuck. I think I'm gonna keep driving now. I'm still a little shaky but I think I'm mostly fine now. 

Okay, here I go. I'm returning to the highway. Oh. There it is again. Blue Toyota. God. It couldn't have been real, then. Since he's behind me again. Hah. Fuck, John, I'm so stressed. 

Look, I'm gonna put on some really, really loud music now and concentrate on that and driving and try to shake myself out of this. 

I love you. I'll call you later.

-

I pulled over again. It's like – what, almost seven now. I'm gonna see if I can fall asleep. I feel almost sea sick. I wonder if it's that sandwich. Ugh.

Anyways. I just had to call you because – 

It's been months. I'm scared you won't love me anymore when I find you.

Please call back. Whatever it is, I promise I'll understand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love to suffer

Hey, it's me again.

There's something weird about the air here. It's sort of – murky. Like river water. Thick. Not mist, or very hot either. It's clear, regular air but it _feels_ brown. Heavy. There's trees on both sides of the road and my GPS won't give me a location. Or it does – it tries to put me in Philadelphia but I passed it almost two hours ago. I was never _in_ Philadelphia, just passed it. I think it's just estimating from my last known position. I don't know. It might be broken. I haven't had service in about twenty miles so I don't know if you get this. I mean for some reason my phone's letting me call you, like it doesn't ring or anything, just goes straight to voicemail like always, but it's going through at least. I hope it's actually going through. I haven't tried calling anyone else. I know I should eventually call someone, Eliza at least. You know her. She'll call the cops on me. 

This feels kinda like back in the army, ya know, the reports. At least I'm good at reporting my surroundings. This whole thing is bringing back stuff I thought I could forget, you know, army stuff. I just don't have you to keep me grounded now, so. It's terrifying how easy it is to slip into that role, you know, the hyper-vigilance. You know, I don't think I ever slipped out of it. I know you never did. Remember that time I came into the bedroom when you were already asleep and kissed your cheek and you almost stabbed me? John, god damn, I didn't even know you had a _knife_ under your fucking _pillow_. I know you remember because neither of us slept that night. It was a rough night, ha. Haven't had a panic attack that bad in years. 

Sorry. In months. The one I had when I came home to that – that mess on the floor was the worst I've ever had. Like, I hyperventilated for minutes and then I just. Went on survival mode. Laf came home hours after me and found me hiding behind the couch with a box cutter. I almost stabbed him in the face with it. Not my proudest moment. 

Anyways – I slept for about two hours in the parking lot of a Target. It helped, like, marginally, so now I'm a little more alert I guess. Let's hope that I won't see any more stuff. The blue Toyota isn't following me anymore. I think I might have imagined it as well, or it just passed me back while I was pulled over. Either one. 

Oh, that reminds me – there haven't been any exits in miles. It's hard to keep track of miles when you don't have a GPS so I'm estimating by, you know, speed and time, but I'd swear there hasn't been an exit in at least fifty miles. That's weird, right? I mean I might've missed one but even then, this is so weird. 

There's like four cars on this highway. It's almost eleven in the morning. There's no reason for it to be this empty. I wouldn't worry but – the air. It's everywhere. Stop laughing, you know what I mean. It's so weird, it makes me feel like I'm having an asthma attack. I don't even _have_ asthma. Maybe it's just hard on my lungs? I'm sorry, I know you get worried. I promise there's nothing wrong with my lungs. It's just this air is so thick and I don't know why. There's also the trees. They're not _regular_ trees. They look way too tropical for – right. I still don't know where I am. Two hours from Philadelphia. DC area, maybe? Ish? Anyways, point is, I've only seen this sort of trees in Nevis. Don't think they had them in Afghanistan. Maybe they did and I just missed them. I don't know. I'm not a biologist. 

Sorry, this is super long. I feel like I've been talking for five minutes. I -

-

Sorry, I got cut off by the answering machine. I figured I'd just keep driving for now and worry about that later, but I’m calling again now. I mean you realize that I'm sure. Sorry.

This is kind of unrelated but, also, sorry for being so dramatic. I know you get huffy every time I do that. It's just hard not to be, you know, with you being in – Atlanta, I hope, with this weird air, with these trees. I feel sort of shaky, still. I don't mean to bring up stuff you're trying to forget. It's just a lot easier to talk to you about these things when you can't answer. Or won't. Anyway. It's like writing letters or Twitter fighting, like, you know you're talking to someone, but they're not answering so it's easier to remove the other person from it if that makes sense. Removes your sense of responsibility. Or something. 

Good news, though – I got off the highway. There was an exit and I took it. I just figured that if there wasn't going to be one for god knows how long I'd eventually run out of gas and I didn't want to take that risk so I'm getting gas now, actually just got out of the car. Hold on, I'm getting it now – 

Alright. I don't know what town this is. Looks really small. GPS still isn't working properly, though it's at least putting me in West Virginia now. This gas station looks kinda gross and I'm kind of tempted to look around for a Target or something. I need coffee. The Monsters just aren't doing it. I also need to pee and I'm not about to get inside that gas station. Like, I’m so serious, that place looks super scary. I don't know what it is exactly but I don't trust it one bit. Remember that heavy air I told you about? It's like it's oozing out of that gas station. It's not on the parking lot or on the smaller roads, but it's coming out of the building. My lungs feel so tight. God. 

There's a girl with a pickup truck at the other gas pump. She keeps looking at me kinda funny. I think it's my pajama pants. Or my hair. Or my eye circles. I try not to look at myself in the mirror because I really do look super rough. Like, dead on my feet level of rough. 

Okay, I got gas now. Paid for it, too. I'm getting back in the car now. Talk to you later.

Wait. Hold on. What's tha-

-

It's the fucking blue Toyota again it's the blue Toyota fuck fuck fuck fuck -

It's following me. It's following me. Oh my god. Oh my _god_. I think I’m gonna have a panic attack. It's definitely following me. I pulled out of the parking lot and it followed me. I'm back on the highway. I don't know why, that was so dumb, holy shit, I got nowhere to run here. I'm gonna have to outrun this motherfucker. I don't think I have anything to defend myself with in the car. I sold that baseball bat. I have scissors. That's probably enough. It has to be. I'll stab him in the fucking face if I have to. 

I don't want to look back at him. I'm so scared I'll look back and he'll be there, faceless and uncooked meat -gross. I'm trying to stay alert. Reasonable. I can't be hallucinating. I can't crash this car.

-

He's still there. Not even tailgating me, keeping a good following distance like a fucking champ. On my fucking lane, though, on the center lane, what the fuck. There's still four cars total in this highway and I'm not sure but I think they're the same cars, still. This is so unnerving it's unbelievable.

I'm trying to ignore him. There's no exits, again, no entrances either. It's making me feel sort of claustrophobic, with the trees and the closed road and the air and the blue Toyota. Like, no escape routes. If he kills me who's gonna hear me scream? 

You're right, I'm being silly. I'd kill that motherfucker before he'd even get close enough to touch me. 

Oh yeah, I didn't tell you yet but the air's back. I mean. I got back into the air I guess? Okay, stop laughing, there's a monster behind me and this air is really concerning me. It's like the air in Nevis, but without the humidity or the heat. It's just thick. I considered the possibility of it being just fumes but it doesn't _smell_ like anything. It's just really hard to breathe. Hard to process. Makes you feel kind of light-headed.

-

Lafayette called. He finally woke up and realized I wasn't there. That's what you get for having a roommate – they won't stay out of your fucking business.

Oh – I don't think I told you. Lafayette never moved out. He tried to, after, you know, the funeral and shit, but I wouldn't let him. I couldn't handle the thought of being alone, you know, messes with my anxiety and shit, brings up all kinds of issues. I figured that as long as there was another person in the house I wouldn't kill myself and Lafayette's always been so good at reading us both. War vets unite, I guess. I suppose it worked since I'm still alive. It came with its downsides too – sometimes he'll come home at six, right, and there's this part of me that's still trained to associate the garage door opening at six with you coming home from work and I still get so excited, like, a heart in the throat type of feeling, and then he'll be all, “hey Alex, did you make dinner, I'm fucking starving,” and I'll _remember_. It's like a physical blow. Like I can smell blood again. But mostly it's good – better than being alone at least. I don't think I would've survived very long on my own. I was alone when they thought you'd died in service. I felt so alone I couldn't take it and if they hadn't called me back in an hour like “never mind, oops,” I would have done it. I never told you the details. I figured you deserved to not know, but now I'm thinking maybe you should know. I don't know. I don't think it'd be fair. I'm dropping this topic now. 

Anyways – Lafayette called. I told him that I had to go to Atlanta. I didn't tell him why, and I’m not entirely sure why. I guess I'm still kind of scared I won't find you. I mean the other thing is, if I tell him I’m looking for you he'll know I’m putting everything into it and if I don't find you –

See, bottom line is Lafayette wants me safe and alive. I don't think I could convince him to leave me alone if I told him the truth, because the thing is, he'd be right. You know being alone isn't good for me. I think I already said it but if I don't find you this'll probably be my last trip. 

I didn't mean to sound that dramatic. Gosh. But like, I might kill myself. I keep talking about it in this sort of funny way, I know, but I’m serious. I'm not in a good place. I don't know how I've stayed alive this long. Probably sheer spite, you know, if I kill myself Jefferson will get the last word, that sort of shit. Honestly, though, Jefferson's gotten so incredibly insufferable in these six months, like you wouldn't _believe_. He went to France for some time and came back and now he speaks exclusively French and rolls his eyes every time I reply to him in French. He still doesn't understand the difference between an accent and a dialect which doesn't really surprise me anymore but god, it's so _annoying_ , like, shut the fuck up, I speak better French than your elitist ass. Like good for you, you lived in Paris for a month and now you know how to order coffee in French, gold fucking star. Guess if he's bothered to learn Spanish yet. Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner, of course he hasn't. “Why?” you may ask, well, you _know_ why. 

You wouldn't ask. I know. That was a rhetorical thing.

I asked Lafayette to tell Eliza that I had to leave for a bit. He said he'd tell her but that she might still want to call me, and I said that's fair. I hope she doesn't call. She knows me way too well.

-

John, I -

never mind. 

I was gonna say something but. But.

Sorry. Eliza called. It's really hard to pay attention to anything right now, sorry, I keep getting distracted by the trees. They're everywhere. I could swear I just saw one growing in the middle of the road. Monkeys, too, and birds. All kinds of birds. I can't see them but I can hear them. 

What was I saying? Oh, yeah, Eliza called. She sounded worried but I managed to convince her not to come look for me. I said everything's fine and I’m almost in Atlanta. She says I better be back by Monday or she'll call the cops. Or track me down. That gives me three days. You better let me find you because I don't want to get tracked down. 

That's another thing, huh? I still don't know where I am. I think the trees are messing with the phone lines or something. I can still call but nothing else is working. No LTE or anything so I can't use Google maps. GPS isn't working either, which scares me a bit. It's not that the batteries are out, like, it turns on and everything. It just doesn't seem to be able to put me anywhere. Odd. Maybe I need to get a new one.

I'll call you later. Gotta charge my phone now.

-

The trees look like they're getting closer, stretching over the entire highway. I can barely see the sky. It's dark. There's so many birds and the noise they're making is deafening. Can you hear them? Sh. Listen. There's thousands of them. I can barely hear my car. I want to say that I’m not terrified but I am, John, I'm terrified to death that I'm going to die on this highway. I know it's illogical, they're just birds, but it's just. I'm scared.

I've never been this scared of trees or birds and it's kind of embarrassing but something about this is making me so aware of how dark it is and how little I can see. It shouldn't be this dark. It's barely half past twelve. The trees are so thick. Dense. 

The birds – 

it's so loud. I can't hear my own thoughts. Am I yelling? It feels like I'm yelling. Why are they yelling? It's like they're screaming. Like they're scared. No, terrified. Like something terrible is about to happen and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it from happening. I can't see them – they're all in the woods, like, deeper in there, I can't see them.

Oh my god. They're flying now.

-

They're not birds. They're butterflies.

Millions of butterflies the size of my fucking face. Black and blue and red and yellow and purple, millions of butterflies flying across the road. I can't see. I'm driving through them and I can't see, they're smashing against my windshield and there's just – way too many of them but I can't see behind me either so I can't stop. 

Butterflies, huh. I just – if they weren't birds – _what_ was screaming?

-

[static]

-

John. John. You need to pick up. I'm serious you need to pick up pick up pick up pick up John fuck fuck fuck fuck-

-

I just saw your face on one of those huge posters by the side of the road pick the fuck up John –

-

It said “death doesn't discriminate” and then there was your face John what does that mean John holy shit, John, pick up pick up pick up I'm serious pick up fuck –

-

[static]

-

Something's screaming again something's screaming John – 

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on tumblr @ lcfayctte maybe
> 
> comments are literally the only thing that keeps me writing. take that as u will


End file.
